Last week I started the blog by saying it would be short due to being on holiday and fishing. On editing with my daughter Janine, who happens to live in the USA, we had to omit that statement, as I managed to waffle on for 3,000 plus words. My target is about 2,500 words on advice, a number I rarely stick to. This time it will be short, it is already Wednesday afternoon and I am sitting in the cramped confines of an Embraer aircraft on our way to Johannesburg, then onto Harare hopefully landing this evening around 8 pm. That leaves me just a couple of hours today to get something written and edited for tomorrow, ready for publishing on Friday. Hectic. Why, you ask, can you not write it tomorrow? Tomorrow and Friday is set aside to visit my mother-in-law who is now in Nazareth House in Harare, visiting some friends, sorting out fishing kit and food for our early morning departure to Kariba on Saturday. I will even miss the rugby internationals this weekend, maybe I’ll be lucky enough to catch the game on the radio if not some bream for supper?
Why do the good times always fly fast? The bad times, they drag. Our three weeks at Dugong Lodge Inhassoro hosted by Martin and Caron Oosthuizen were absolutely fantastic! Now I know why in the old days we always stayed a month. Caron and Martin are not only wonderful hosts but dedicated to caring for Caron’s elderly parents. Caron’s dad is extremely ill although comfortable under Martin and Caron's care. Like many Zimbabweans, her parents have lost everything and rely on both Caron and Martin to care for them and also cover costs for their living needs. The question is, who will keep Martin and Caron in their old age, as there is no chance of saving with two families to feed? Of course, medical is one of the largest expenses one has in Africa, either paying for insurance, prohibitive for the elderly in poor health or paying for doctors and medicines.
Rozanne insisted we include marlin fishing in Mozambique as catching a marlin was the first item on my bucket list. I was unsure if I was fit enough to spend many days being rocked about on the ocean. A year ago I could not even walk ten metres without struggling for breath while I waited for my heart treatment and cancer surgery. In hindsight, I even felt much better than I did when fishing with her last in Africa, which was three years ago. Of course unbeknown, I was sick. In fact, I would often ask myself is old age as bad as this or is it just me? Fortunately, I am presently much fitter, long may it last. Thanks to Rozanne and my doctors. It just emphasises in life never give up, surprisingly things can get better, when it does, make the utmost of it. Of course, I have been very lucky, I do appreciate that fact.
“We are lucky enough to be given life, it is up to us to make the most of it. If you can do this without hurting others, engage in life’s adventures with zest!” - Peter McSporran
Many mornings we boarded our fishing boat thinking we may suffer injury either from the hull or propellers as we jumped onto the boat in the breaking surf. We didn’t hurt ourselves, with each day's award in making the effort through rough but exhilarating seas, clean fresh air in our lungs, tight lines and sightings from dolphins to turtles. A blue ocean all to ourselves. We even spent a day snorkelling on Santa Carolina (Paradise Island) which we have often done in the past on many family holidays. Sadly only Storm this time as the other children and their partners all had work or personal commitments.
Not only did I tick a marlin off my bucket list, Rozanne and Storm also caught. Rozanne even added a sailfish to her extended fishing successes. We had a great time on the boat with our long-time fishing guide Bruce Cooke and his partner Irené. Seeing Bruce and Charles Lee, another long time fishing guide and friend, in action when a marlin strikes is amazing. Even more amazing, on the last day when we had a further two marlins on, both times Rozanne was holding the dead bait line. It is held slackly with an elastic band hooked around your finger attached to the fishing line which breaks when the marlin strikes. It is an exciting experience as you can feel the fish get agitated as the marlin approaches and then as it strikes, the marlin puts on an iridescent show. The second strike we all missed seeing, except for her. The rest of us were watching Gordie Bradford and his boat fighting a 780lb marlin which he landed. That day we both lost ours, that is fishing! The last day was exceptional as the sea became flat calm with feeding balls of baitfish all around us from lunchtime onwards. It made you feel like going out one more time on the last day, unfortunately packing and good sense prevailed. It was also great to chat with Gordie and his team about their fishing exploits, being winners of many marlin fishing competitions in Southern Africa. They live for their fishing, their knowledge is unbelievable. I learned so much in these last three weeks, more than the last seventeen years of deep-sea fishing. It will be doubtful if we will be able to do this again. What a finale! We could have not asked for better.
An Expensive Iron
On disembarking from the trucks once arriving in Llewellin Barracks it did not take long for us to realise we were, “In the Army Now.” I cannot really recollect the timing of the procedures on the first day. We were “C” Company, Intake 132 in the Rhodesia Regiment. We were informed we would have six weeks basic training, then six weeks training for combat. Of course, we did not know what basic training entailed, we soon would. First though was haircuts, tetanus injections, medicals. Those with medical conditions would be ‘weeded out’ before basic training being deemed “S” category to become Regimental Police (RPs) hated by all when in barracks, cooks, and bottle washers and other administration duties not requiring physical effort. Being flat-footed was a sure case of being deemed “S Cat”. Being half-blind did not seem so important as I found myself in the bush with some pretty blind guys. Haircuts were mandatory even for those that had one before leaving home. Maybe it was a money-raising exercise? We were then divided up into training platoons and issued with kit. All this was done by loud instructions, always shouting never a spoken word. In the various lines, we started chatting to each other, some with much more knowledge than me about what the procedures and timetable would be. I had neither an elder brother nor friend who had been conscripted to forewarn me of the army's idiosyncrasies.
John, the New Zealander and myself stood out because of our accents. I do hope his name was John, I may have misremembered his name. The issuing of kit was next, with combat trousers, long sleeve shirts, combat jackets and combat caps all in camouflage denim. All of these would be altered over the next few months, trousers with sewn-in creases and elastic around the trouser bottom to fit snugly around brown combat boots. Shirts tapered with the sleeves shortened although we were always told to wear them long for extra camouflage. Camouflage paint, although uncomfortable, was not as hot as long cotton sleeves. Then green underpants about three sizes too large, green vests and woollen grey socks, the latter we were to find shrank after the first wash if the water was too hot making them unwearable. We did not know this, those items were the worst, however not as ugly as the floppy green underpants. We also received webbing, including magazine pouches and water bottles, also over time to be altered or custom replaced to each man's preference. During training, we found the flapping magazine pouches and water bottles very uncomfortable. We also received a backpack that few of us were to use in operations, only training, along with a bivvy (light canvas sheet used as shelter) and a blanket. The bivvy being light replaced the blanket for warmth on operations in winter and as a shelter in the rains. We even got a sewing kit and other items I cannot recall. Footwear was brown strap up combat boots and black leather boots known in the army as ‘stick boots’, which were of dimpled black leather along with tacks on the sole. Just like the 'tackety' boots shepherds used on the farm back on Mull. We were soon to learn what boning your kit included, not just ironing but the smoothing out of the dimples on the stick boots and boning them into black shining boots with the sheen of patent leather. This we were soon to learn was achieved by hours, no days, of rubbing with a heated metal spoon, spit and Kiwi polish. Only Kiwi, other brands just did not achieve the same sheen. Interestingly I looked up polishing boots in the British army and they still recommend Kiwi as the best. How is that for a plug?
Finally, we got items for dress uniform including a beret and badge, stable belt, a broad belt almost like a cumberbund with the regiments colours, and puttees. The puttees, a remnant from the British India army days, if nothing else the army sure likes tradition. These puttees used in old days to wrap around your lower legs for protection now had become a tool of pain on inspections as the wraps had to be precise in size, any variation was deemed a sin. Stick boots, puttees and berets could always be found at fault on inspections, during basic training were frequent and irregular, day and night based purely on the whim of the instructor often on his way home from the mess. Of course, loose threads, off-set beret badges and wrongly-laced boots were all of great interest to instructors. These were very difficult for a recruit to identify although easily seen by the senior ranks on or above sergeant.
We also received feeding irons, a knife, fork, spoon and two ashets, with folding handles which fit inside each other. Each plastic bottle had a metal holder which doubled as a cup. One of the most important pieces of equipment, as later in the bush we used these both to cook and brew tea and importantly scoop water from normally larva infested pools. On five or six-day patrols, we shed as much weight as possible. Water, ammunition, grenades, radios, rifles we could not discard. Extra cooking dishes, yeah. Before the cooking dishes, the blankets were first to go, heavy and cumbersome when dry and dead weight when wet. We finally got to our allocated barrack-room late in the day. We were warned by our sergeant instructor to be wary of the senior intakes, as they could well haze us. That made us both vigil and tense for the first few days until that event was over.
He also passed on the important advice that if we wanted to pass inspection, not only would we have to have boots boned but our uniforms and bed packs ironed to crisp lines. He said he could help us with an iron and volunteered to lease it for our use at 25 cents a month per person. We gullibly thanked him for this generous offer, paid in advance as required giving him an income of $5+. Little did we know, one iron was not enough for one barrack room but more importantly they could be bought at the barracks shop for $3. We found this out as our iron-on closer inspection needed a new element which cost nearly as much as a new iron. Of course, we did not renew the contract at month-end, no problem there was always another gullible intake on their way.
Finally, we learned as new recruits we were not allowed to walk, we must run everywhere, even to the toilet and meals. When not moving we had to run on the spot at double time. When in squads we had to run in time with each other, only practice on the drill square would teach us these coordinated skills. I never really achieved these marching skills having two left feet. On basic training, we were not allowed in the battalion bar. The New Zealander and I disobeyed this and enjoyed a couple of beers actually in awe of our older intakes who were convinced we would be confined to Barracks (CB) if we were caught. As we were on basic training and confined anyway we did not consider this a threat, little knowing being on CB included a lot more odious punishments such as reporting on the double to the guardhouse every hour with a change of kit, standing doubling on the spot while the RP on duty enjoyed a cup of tea before inspecting you before informing of the next change of clothes required. Luckily we were not caught and went back to the barrack-room relaxed to be met by a very irate sergeant. Oh well, we were in the army now.
Land Tenure Challenges in Africa
This subject I will cover in a couple of blogs. Further, the views I reiterate are mine and I may have a misconception, it however relates to what I have seen and encountered. Land is a very sensitive subject the world over, especially in Africa. While looking beneficial to all having access, the state has huge power over the people and their votes that would be unacceptable in democratic countries. Traditional tenure is where state land, either under the control of a chief or headman, is allocated to his tribesmen. I use tribesmen as it is very unusual for a woman to be allocated land in her own right. Her role is to till it. The state does not allocate the traditional land to the people, the tribal leaders do, in some cases, it can be councils, even those under guidance from the chief. What you give, you can always take away, try living with that. Be grateful and do not rock the boat, or system.
To win elections, you do not have to win over the people in many parts of Africa, just the chiefs. Control of the people may be through loyalty to the ruling house, by force both physical and threatening, bribery, coercion, favour, removal of access to food and crop inputs or funds donated by the Government or NGOs. It was brought to my notice just this week, the ruling party in Zimbabwe would have the say on who would receive farming inputs this coming season. There certainly will not be any opposition members as recipients.
Sometimes control is by simple recognition of their traditional office. Yes, many chiefs are elected by councils although from a single royal family, generally not the people. Councils are easily influenced, often made up of elderly gentlemen, often uneducated, happy to keep the status quo or equally with the correct pressure will do their masters bidding. With education and urbanisation, their power is slowly eroding but as yet not to the extent to change the status quo. Some senior chiefs’ subjects can be as large as a million people. Their subjects rely on them for land, access often to crop inputs, for favourable tribal court disputes, the list is endless. It would be a brave man to bite the hand that feeds him. Mugabe claimed that ‘real power was when a man got on his knees to beg you for food’.
In return the chief can create personal wealth for himself through ‘hut taxes’, misused donations, bribes from politicians, fines or payments just to seek an audience. Many receive a Government stipend, easily stopped if any dissent is shown. Generally, they are not terribly wealthy but hold power and stature. Of course, not all chiefs are despots. Some are fine gentlemen, I have known many over the years good and bad.
So much is spoken about land tenure in Africa especially by socially orientated NGOs (Non-Governmental Organisations) claiming it is a wonderful system ensuring equal access to land and home security. I question this. In Africa, perhaps due to both the traditional forms of a feudalistic system often strengthened by demarcation of large swathes of land by the colonial powers, much of Africa’s land is still under traditional tenure, although the land belongs to the state. Most Presidents have the final say in land use and its form of tenure.
This does not sound so bad, especially when the politicians, principally the so-called freedom fighters, say the land is for the people. The people deserve the land but in fact, few do have it. Many a war in Africa has been fought for the land that was already in the people’s hands, following independence the status quo remained except where foreign settlers were evicted. Here a token amount is given to the people, the rest to the politicians, their families and cronies. Sure, the colonisers may have had large tracts but the majority of land in African countries remained and still remains under traditional tenure. This ensures the traditional tribal structures keep control. Next week I will talk about the perceived benefits to traditional tenure, then in the following week on what I perceive are the cons.
I leave you with a thought, how would you feel on becoming a widow, your late husband’s brother or another male family member inheriting all of your belongings, including the allocated family land and you yourself?
Disclaimer: Copyright Peter McSporran. The content in this blog represents my personal views and does not reflect corporate entities.
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